


A Promise to the Ocean

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Archive!Jonathan Sims, But not in a porn way?, Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Eventual Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Hurt Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist is the Magnus Institute Archives, Lonely Avatar Martin Blackwood, Loss of Agency, Loss of Identity, M/M, Mentioned Martin Blackwood's Mother, Partial Nudity, Pre-Slash, Prophecy, Public Nudity, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:09:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26921167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: Martin sold himself into the service of He-Who-Walks-In-The-Fog. It was easy, when it came to it. He walked down to the sea, never all that far away, and Peter was there, already waiting.Now a servant of the Lonely Ones, one family within the Fae, Martin attends an event at the Seeing Court.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard & Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood & Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 18
Kudos: 105





	A Promise to the Ocean

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't know how this fic happened. I got back from my shift this afternoon and sat down and wrote this entire thing in an afternoon. Inspired by 'Silver in the Wood' by Emily Tesh, in that reading it got my brain mulling over fae AUs. Some vivid images to write around later, we got going and here we are.
> 
> Warnings for one not good scene happening with Jon near the end, where the tags concerning nudity and mind control come in. More details in the end notes if needed.

Martin sold himself into the service of He-Who-Walks-In-The-Fog. It was easy, when it came to it. He walked down to the sea, never all that far away, and Peter was there, already waiting. Martin accepted this without a single question, and that seemed to please Peter even more than the deal.

Peter got Martin. Martin's mother got her life. A simple enough exchange, especially by fae standards. If anything, too simple: no sting in the tail. Martin's mother didn't want him and Peter, apparently, did, or at the very least he was willing to take him. Martin knew it was up to him to help his mother, because there was nobody else around. Once the idea of asking the fae occurred to him, it never left. Every moment his mother coughed and scowled, that was another moment he'd condemned her to through his own inaction. His own weakness. Martin had nothing to offer but himself. Fortunately, the self was what the fae dealt in.

Would it have been better if his mother had sold him? Honestly, it wouldn't have made any difference.

On that cold shoreline, Martin had seen The Man With The Faded Smile out in the waves. It was never a question of whether he'd give himself, only to whom. The Lonely Ones had seemed like the obvious choice. When that broad arm had curled around his shoulders, it had done nothing to dispel the chill. If anything, it had pushed the cold in deeper.

"I want my mum to live," Martin had said. He’d meant it in every sense of the word: years and enjoyment and to step outside the house for the first time since his father had left them. "I don't want to wager," he'd added, remembering what few stories he could about the Lonely Gambler. "I don't – This isn't something I want to win. I want to be sure."

It had felt like he was being drawn under something, _into_ something. Within Peter's coat, perhaps. That coat always felt so much larger than it looked, with all the fog of the ocean swirling inside to swallow you whole.

"Not even a small one?" Peter had asked. "It doesn't have to be anything major. Just sweeten the deal."

Of course. Martin would never be enough. As he thought it, he’d felt the cold sink deeper, and even though he didn't look up he’d known Peter was smiling. Peter is always smiling. "Whatever you want," he'd said. 

"That's no fun."

Martin had finally given in to the desire to wrap his arms around himself. It did nothing. Peter's hand slid a little higher, up his shoulder to brush his neck under his hair. "Fine," he'd muttered. "Pick something impossible. My freedom, isn't that traditional?" The only freedom he could hope for, they’d sung, was the Boatswain's Call. To finally be swept up and become only fog. No person left to be lonely.

Peter laughed. It echoed in the wind. "Alright," he'd said. "How about true love? That suits a poet. Find someone to feel for both of you." 

One last mockery. Martin felt his mouth twitch, ready to laugh himself. And then Peter brought his other hand over to rest against Martin's chest. 

Martin had honestly believed he’d known the cold just fine. He’d believed that right until his heart froze.

The force of it, the ice of Peter's palm, pushed through and inside him. His breath clouded in front of him; again, smaller; fading to a wisp; then empty air. His lungs moved, and he was cold. He'd always been cold – too expensive to warm the whole house, his mother so ill she needed the blankets and the hot food and the fire before her – but now the inevitability of it felt right. He'd been such a terrible son, with all those resentful thoughts, his grasping thoughts of warmth. Now he knew this was the way it always would be.

When he thought of his mother, Martin felt nothing.

"Perfect," Peter had whispered. With his arm around Martin, he led them both into the surf. The waves soaked through Martin's shoes, then his jeans, then his shirt. It filled his lungs and his mind. Nothing stared back from the depths, and Martin knew he was alone because Peter was there to remind him that he was worth nothing.

\---

Most of the time, Martin doesn't even see Peter. Not because of the way his Captain fades in and out on a whim, but because he doesn't concern himself with the work Martin does. In a cabin on the Tundra or soaking in an office in the City, Martin continues to give away what bits of himself he must in order to be useful. It doesn't please him, the helping or the hurting, but he doesn't mind it either. 

That that means it also isn’t all that astounding when Peter appears to him, bearing a pale grey suit over one arm. "You're my plus one," he announces, and tosses a suit which must have cost something into the thousands onto Martin's sea-chest. (That chest is empty. Martin doesn't like to open it, because sometimes he imagines there's a photo of his mother inside.)

"When?" Martin asks wearily. Peter might not take an interest in what Martin does, but he does take an interest in Martin. Judging by the tales, it must be fairly standard for a fae to show off a new possession. Martin's probably lucky that Peter still considers him interesting. 

"Tonight."

"Where?"

"The Seeing Court."

Martin blinks at that, slowly. Something tingles a little like pressing his hand to the stove. It might be surprise. "Why?"

"I already told you that," Peter scolds, with a grin and a wagging finger. "I'll get you when I'm ready."

Knowing full well how inconsistent that can be, Martin dresses the moment Peter steps easily through the wall, the whole ship an extension of himself. Martin's privacy comes from Peter's lack of curiosity. It's good, he thinks dully. He's in the service of one of the Powers and yet so much of the time it's just him. Sometimes he wonders whether all the Lonely's lords and ladies are like this. It's not like he could choose: Peter was the one waiting when Martin wanted him, and there's nothing else to read into it. It doesn't change anything at all.

The suit is slippery. It slides onto his limbs and curls in close, until it's like Martin can feel Peter's arms around him again. The tie might as well be water for all Martin tries to look presentable. The third time it slithers free, it falls right into Peter's grasp. Looking at it lying between those smooth fingers, Martin's put in mind of the final struggles of fish – or maybe it's the subtle rainbow shimmer, of scales or oil on the ocean or dragonflies in glass.

He's getting too fanciful. Peter doesn't offer to tie it, but when Martin attempts the knot again, Peter's hands are ready to catch and tighten it, close to Martin's throat. 

"Perfect," Peter says. Martin says nothing, although from the way Peter bares his teeth, he knows that Martin doesn't care.

\---

Martin's only been to a gathering of the lords and ladies of the Lonely once. The Friendless Ones attend weddings and funerals together and little else besides. That would defeat the point. It had been in a grand mansion – grand and empty. Every corridor swallowed you whole; every step echoed; every stone radiated cold. One of the family had wanted to leave, to walk in the sun with a human consort and laugh and wed and join hands with others. Martin had looked down into the casket, at the blank face identical to so many around him, and wondered what could possibly be worth it. 

The Seeing Court, in so many ways, is the exact opposite. From the first step Martin takes out of the fog, he can feel the eyes on him. Far from being isolated, he’s never been so aware of people, of _everything_ watching him. Every passer-by stares at him, adults and children and dogs all turning their heads. Two impossibly beautiful actors looked out from a blaringly bright film poster and Martin knows he isn’t imagining the way their eyes follow him. He's seen that trick before, at least. He really hates the City.

"I'd take us in the normal way," Peter says, his arm weighing down Martin's shoulders as usual, "but Elias really is a bore about these things."

Martin swallows back his gasp along with the shadow of a flinch. He saw the Watcher's Eye just the once, and really it was more that he'd _felt_ him. At some party or other, another one of Peter's little fancies, the one talking to Peter had looked straight at Martin and smiled. His teeth had been so very white, the sclera of his eyes whiter still around the emerald. The fog wouldn't take Martin and he'd had to wait through the fae-touched second until Elias had taken his fill.

Maybe Peter senses something. Or maybe he just likes to talk. "There's nothing for you to worry about. You're not new. Elias tires faster than any of us, unless there's something in it for him." It should sting, the echo in Martin's mind of 'not new' in so many different phrases. Instead, it might just be one of the kindest things Peter's ever said to him. He might almost confuse it with concern. 

It's something of a tangle of Powers in the hotel where Elias has placed his court today. Peter's insubstantial enough to not have to dodge the limbs spilling out from the Flesh's artists, while in his unknown stretch of time in Peter's wake Martin has learnt not to look too hard at the maddening clothing of the Distortion, the Desolate’s flames in winking jewellery, or the shadows without lights wherever the Dark's priests step. The sensation of being watched never fades, of course, yet Martin still relaxes surrounded by so many lords and ladies. He is insignificant. The chill inside him isn't remarkable; he is beyond comment. This is never more obvious to him than when he realises that Peter has left him with ease, stepping away to claim winnings or shake hands with the single firm motion Martin has only ever felt the once. 

Most of the fae have brought some sort of human prize with them. The one by the side of the One Who Brings Sky Blue occasionally hovers, his breath snatched by freefall, or jolts with the strike of imagined lightning, as those to whom the Fair Child is boasting nod and barely hide their yawns. Martin would feel sorry for him, if that were a thing he could feel. As it is, he just accepts it. Simple and easy, Martin passes through to the edges of the crowd and out. There's no helping anyone other than those above you.

Martin doesn't feel anything anymore, his soul frozen and drowned together. Nevertheless, he can't ignore the tables lining the ballroom’s walls, wrapped in white and gold and black and piled high with food of all shapes and sizes, the air above them thick with enticing smells and everything steaming or shimmering provocatively, just daring someone to take a bite. There are humans here too, tempted to risk eternity here. Some stand open-mouthed, save to swallow back the saliva that's building; others press their lips firmly together, muffled protests coming from behind. Martin was born poor, raised poor: he grabs a plate and helps himself. He might not feel hunger, but this isn't about what he feels, it's about what he thinks. On principle, he can't not eat anything. What's it going to do? Add a few thousand years?

He cuts himself a pretty generous slice of the chocolate cake, with its seeping sauce, on the basis that he's fairly certain he can only put on weight if Peter wills it. The Lonely Ones aren't as interested in transformation as, say, the Strangers, unless it's a wasting away. Does it count as rebellion? It's certainly not meant that way. There's nothing to rebel for.

It's as he raises the cake to his lips that he realises he's being watched.

Obviously he's being watched. That sensation never stopped, of a thousand upon a thousand eyes trained on him. He's in the Seeing Court, that's only natural – or supernatural, maybe. But this doesn't feel the same. It isn't the weight of magic bearing down on him. It's more...human than that.

He glances around. Quite a few of the humans are watching him, or rather the cake in his hand. He places it back on the plate, the plate on the table, and their eyes follow it, not him. Yet the sensation lingers, creeping up his spine.

Sharply, he turns, and sees the man looking at him.

He's small, drawn in on himself so that he looks smaller. His arms are wrapped around him, his shoulders hunched over and spine following suit. He's swathed in layers, a hood and coat and bulky trousers and gloves and who knows what else beneath, all in a mishmash of black and brown and dull green and unremarkable blue. The whole point is to not notice those clothes, but in a far more solid way than Martin's fog-bound suit – a suit of which he is suddenly painfully aware. There's hair hanging around the man's face, black streaked with grey and not looking unclean so much as unkempt. Something about the distinction seems quite important.

Inside the hood, framed by the hair, are two eyes. They're dark, flecked with something that Martin shouldn't be able to see from this distance, and they're fixed on Martin. Martin isn't just being watched: he's being _seen_.

Most of Martin wants to run. He doesn't need Peter to vanish into the fog, not with such exposure at stake. It's already nipping at his fingers, loose at his sides.

Abruptly, the man looks down, breaking the connection that's pricking Martin's skin with sweat. He tucks all of himself tighter together and doesn't so much walk as _depart_ , slouching away along the wall. Much like Martin, he's avoiding the crowd, despite how he clearly wants to disappear.

"Hey," Martin says softly, barely more than a breath, barely even a noise. Then, "Hey!" And before he knows it consciously, he's moving, slipping past the humans and steering clear of anything else. There's nothing real to him except the man, so it's easy to follow him.

Just before Martin can touch him, the man turns and, up close, Martin feels the full blow of the scowl. "What do you want?"

"I - Nothing." It's quite true. It's also painfully inadequate.

"Why are you following me?"

"Why are you watching me?"

"You do realise you're under the Ceaseless Eye?" The man raises an eyebrow, radiating contempt. "I might as well ask you why you're alone."

Martin's mouth flattens. It...needles him, in a way he's not used to. Without thinking of how stupid it sounds, he says, "You weren't just watching me and you know it."

To his surprise, the man hesitates. His eyes widen and, oh, those flecks in his irises aren't just one colour. In amidst the brown shimmers green, blue, pink, scarlet, indigo, gold, amber, steel - until the man slams his eyes closed and covers them with his hand, practically cringing away. The cold surges within Martin's chest.

"I shouldn't have," the man grinds out. "I'm - " He stops. Heaves a deep breath. Drops his hand but doesn't open his eyes again. "I'm sorry."

Apologies are not freely offered in any court, by fae or humans. Everyone knows better than to incur a debt for nothing. Martin cannot deserve this. He isn't worth it.

"No, I'm sorry," Martin says, just to balance it out. He's struck by the intense thought that he doesn't want to stop this just yet, although he stops short of not wanting to be alone. That said, he can hardly ask for a name, even after the apologies, and he struggles to think of how to talk. "Um. So, what do you do here?"

The man's face wrinkles, petulant annoyance with confusion, and Martin almost laughs. It tickles in his throat. Carefully, the man opens his eyes, and Martin makes sure not to look too closely. Not to name what he's looking at. "Elias uses me to consult his Archive."

The phrasing is odd. Still, if asked, Martin's not sure how he would find himself describing his own function. You can't just say 'useful'. You can't assume that. "So you're his archivist?"

Beneath those eyes, lips twist as if tasting something bitter. "I was," the man says, and leaves it hanging there. Daring Martin to ask more.

Martin does want to know more. It's new, this curiosity blooming inside him. This isn't the sea foam of idle speculation, bubbles of thoughts in the silence. Something is opening up inside Martin's mind. Something is stretching in there, trying to make space and tasting the air. 

Quietly, Martin asks, "Were your eyes brown before?"

There's no reply. The man's lips part, but no sound comes out. Once again he's _looking_ at Martin except now it’s more than that. From the way those eyes flick from side to side, this man is looking _for_ Martin.

"What colour were yours?"

The Lonely Ones abhor colour. At Peter's touch, with the press of the water and the sinking into the fog, every shade drained from Martin. Everything about their realm is muted, safe, as unexceptional as has ever suited him. For the very first time since he sank beneath the waves, Martin wonders what he looks like to others.

"Blue. Sort of." Awkwardly Martin waves a hand in mid-air. "Not, like, vivid blue? More like...dishwater. Bit grey, really." Once upon a time, Martin believed he could write poetry. He'd stared into the mirror for hours and never once came up for a complimentary way to describe himself. So he tried to write about everything else. 

His notebook had been in his coat pocket that day on the shore, he remembers. It never occurred to him to look for it.

Frowning, the man reaches out gloved hands towards him. It isn't until soft wool brushes against skin that Martin realises what's happening. A thumb slides along the dip beneath his eye and Martin is being touched. Apart from Peter, he hasn't been touched in so long. Even before Peter, he existed alone. He's frozen, more metaphorically than before, kept in place by the lightest of touches. 

His skin prickles. It itches. His cheeks lose some of their chill; the suit shifts against his skin; the tie's knot bites. For that moment, standing there, Martin is suddenly, intensely, aware of himself. Every bit of himself. The light is shining down on him, but it isn't a cold spotlight exposing his flaws. It's soft and warm, filling him up.

Then, like the tide, it washes out again. The cold returns, sharper than before, burrowing deep with cries about how Martin could ever have left it.

Through the ringing in his ears, Martin realises someone is talking - declaiming, rather. At the same time, through his blurred vision, he sees the man draw back as the sensation of faceless eyes returns, stronger than ever. A pressure in his skull want it to turn towards the centre of the ballroom. Martin fights the pull as best he can. Somehow, he knows that the moment he looks away, something will be lost he will not find again.

"My esteemed guests," Elias is announcing, "it is time for us to consult the Archive."

Abruptly, a single, blazing eye fills Martin's vision. It's as sudden as it is searing, as frightening as it is undeniable, and he does what it wants. He looks away.

It takes him a moment to realise that he's curled up on the floor. He's in no hurry to stand: nobody cares, and with a deep certainty curling up in his bones he knows that he is alone.

He hears Elias continue, with an audible smirk. "We all know the rules and we all know better than to, shall we say, _reinterpret_ them. One question to each power. I will not repeat myself."

"Much," someone mutters near Martin. The sudden stink of blood at last forces Martin to his feet, enough to step back from the Hunters. They've always been too vivid for him, since he drowned.

Everyone, human and fae, has turned inwards. Throughout the ballroom - magnified beyond the comprehension of physics - bodies clear a space in the centre and define its edges, centring on a throne that doesn’t look so much placed as grown from the reflection in the floor. Anticipation fills the air. Whatever it is Peter wants here, this is it. With the disinterest only the Lonely Ones can bestow, Martin spots his Captain close to the front, with what Martin quickly realises are representatives of every power present. Trust Peter not to say a word about their real business, or what this night means. Martin can't manage the slightest shock as the truth fills him, that this is clearly something of a significant event.

He does find himself making a sound not unlike a gasp, however, when he sees the figure moving out of the crowd, towards Elias' outstretched hand.

"Jon," Elias murmurs, echoes filling the room. A name freely offered - meaningless, then. Nothing that can bind. All eyes are on Martin’s mystery as he comes to a halt.

Jon inhales visibly, straightening up. Slowly he lifts his hands to pull back his hood; peel off his gloves; slip the coat from his shoulders. The jumper shortly joins it in a puddle on the highly polished floor - a floor that reflects precisely what you don't want to see. Then he hesitates, fingers twitching. There's something marked on his hands, Martin realises. He also knows that everybody else has realised it as well. The Hunters are practically panting.

"Now, Jon," Elias says, admonishing. He taps a finger against his immaculately tailored leg. "Do you require assistance?"

From the way Jon shakes his head, it isn't clear whether his response is voluntary. Nevertheless, his hands jerk into motion, grabbing the base of his long-sleeved shirt and pulling it upwards.

Underneath, the marks become clear. Jon's skin is covered in eyes.

"Do you need the rest?" Jon mutters, a discordant note that breaks the ritual thickening in the air.

"What sort of an Archive obscures itself?" Elias is holding something now, something he picked up from the throne at his back. It drapes across his hands, sheer and liquid. Abruptly Martin is reminded of his own suit, tossed aside on the ship.

Jon's mouth firms. His shoulders set, as if determined to fight this battle regardless of witnesses or likelihood of success.

Then Elias carefully reaches out, cups Jon's chin with one long finger, and forces their eyes to meet.

"Now, my Archive."

Jon's shoulders relax. All of him relaxes.

"The Ceaseless Watcher awaits."

Jon's hands drift to his trousers. When they drop, there's a sigh across the ballroom. When Elias drapes him in the robe, it's purely as possession. The whole time, Jon never looks away.

Elias reaches up to his own neck, and undoes his tie. "Kneel," he says. Jon tenses, fists clenching for just a second. Martin finds himself doing the same. And then Jon drops, as helpless as a puppet, the thump of his body against the floor loud in the silence.

Elias winds his tie around Jon's head, binding his eyes. Jon's breathing is speeding up, his hands twitching in his lap. When Elias steps back to take his throne, sitting with one leg crossed casually over the other, Jon stays where he is. His hands fidget faster, fingers gripping, wrists straining.

Martin wants to grab his hands. Wants to drag him away. Wants to pull off the blindfold and find those brown eyes. Wants to know what it is that makes Jon unafraid.

"I have a question for the Archive," Elias intones. He's smiling.

Jon's hands stop moving. They go flat, stretched wide across his thighs. Then, slowly, with none of the bursts or the life of the man Martin met, he raises them up to the blindfold, facing outwards. At the same time, his eyes open. All across his skin, his eyes open. And there, in the centre of his palms, are two shining green eyes atop them all.

"Am I speaking to the Archive?" Elias asks. From the strain in his voice, it sounds as though it's all he can do not to laugh out loud.

"Yes," the Archive says. His lips move but Martin doesn't hear the words. Instead, the knowledge settles inside him of precisely the correct words, intonation and meaning and intent.

Elias lazily waves a hand to his right - Peter. "Your turn."

Peter affects a lack of interest beyond anything Martin's seen on him before. If he sighed any harder all the fog would blow out of him. "How do I find the Extinction?"

Martin frowns. The name's unfamiliar to him, but from the whispering all around, not to everyone.

This time, the Archive doesn't answer straight away. Elias' foot bounces and his eyes narrow.

"The Lonely needs to See," it says. "The Watcher in the Fog. An exchange of wagers. You found what you need on the shore." Then it falls silent.

Peter makes an utterly disgusted noise. "I hate it when it gets cryptic."

"They can't all be obvious," Elias chides him. "Last time you complained it didn’t tell you which shore to be on."

Martin feels himself go still.

One by one, the representatives step forward with questions. One by one, the Archive answers. The knowledge drops into Martin's head, and yet he barely registers it. He's too busy thinking.

Peter goes to lots of shores. It could be a coincidence. The problem with that is the way that the Archive talks, with the utmost understanding. When it said Peter already had what he needed...Martin had Known what it meant. As surely as the talk of the Fog had summoned up an arm around his shoulders. 

Once again, that stirring of curiosity inside of him, the slightest ripple. The question of why Peter was there that day, waiting for him.

After the thirteen representatives of the Powers have stepped forward and then given way in turn - the spindly figure of a Spider's Child abstains with a mocking smile that makes their host grit his teeth - Elias languorously pulls himself to his feet. Beatifically he smiles and places his hand on the Archive's head. He says something, but this time there is no projection of his voice and Martin doesn't hear a word. He only knows that, at once, all of the Archive's eyes close, the emerald light abruptly gone as surely as a light switch, and Jon collapses back onto the ballroom floor.

"My most valued guests." Elias claps his hands together, and the Eyes press close again. "The hotel is at your disposal. Do try not to make a mess."

A polite titter greets his words, and, just like that, the gathered crowd begins to seep out of the expanse. Many of the fae take the wrists of humans, whispering in their ear or chuckling as they wipe berry juices from their lips. There's a tugging of threads in the air, not just from the Weavers but all of the fae reaping their rewards. Some of the representatives have their heads bent together; others are rejoining their coteries, with smiles or frowns. The event, it seems, is over.

Peter is still complaining to Elias as Martin drifts closer, against the tide. "Bloody useless, that's what it is."

"My Archive is not useless," Elias snaps. "It can simply be a little...obscure."

"I thought you had him under control," Peter says. "I saw that performance. Losing your touch, Elias?"

Elias finally turns his head from where he's been watching Jon, still splayed on the floor. "Growing pains," he says simply. "I don't recall you being present during his cultivation. Be grateful I still favour you."

Martin's eyebrows raise a little at that. He finds himself level with Jon, looking down at him. Unconscious, he looks so small. The markings have become just that again: marks on his body. There are others, Martin notices, traces of scars along his hands and arms and throat. His hair spills across the tiles.

"Another question," Peter demands.

"No."

"Everyone else got real answers."

"Everyone gets one question, Peter. Don't be greedy."

The buttons of Martin's jacket undo slowly under his fingers, one by one. It slips easily off of his shoulders, and carefully he catches it. As he crouches down, he covers Jon with it. Against Jon's skin, the grey of the suit doesn't dull. It glows. 

Knowing that he's already overstepped his boundaries, Martin reaches out with both hands to raise Jon’s head gently, to find the knot of the blindfold. It comes apart easily in his hands. He lets out a breath at the sight of Jon's closed eyes. He could almost be sleeping.

Martin's aware of silence behind him. He drags his attention away from Jon, to see both his Captain and Jon's Lord watching him. Peter, if anything, seems a little confused; Elias' eyes, meanwhile, are hard, narrowed. Martin has the sudden sense of a piercing wind, all knives and grasping fingers, tearing through his mind. It comes and goes in an instant and leaves him doubled over by the time Peter has grabbed Elias' arm with a outraged shout.

"Do you know," Elias says slowly, as if nothing has occurred "I think this might be worth a wager after all. It doesn't hurt to test our powers, after all."

And he holds out a hand.

“Shall we begin?”

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Towards the end, Jon is consulted as The Archive. In the process he loses agency and then his identity - Jon and the Archive are very much different entities. He is made to strip in front of an audience and wear a robe.


End file.
